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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26224471">Something Bad</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken'>thedevilchicken</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stoker (2013)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dubious Consent, F/M, Hunters &amp; Hunting, Outdoor Sex, Parent/Child Incest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:27:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>867</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26224471</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Her father always knew what to do.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>India Stoker/Richard Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Femsub Semi-Flash 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Something Bad</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Affectionary/gifts">Affectionary</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Her father always knew what to do. </p><p>She was young the first time he took her hunting. She didn't understand why it was happening at the time that it happened; one day, not long after she turned eight, he told her he had a surprise for her and then they went outside into the woods. </p><p>She didn't know them quite so well then, not like she would later. She didn't know the paths, and the not-paths, or the way the grass sighed as the breeze slipped through it, or the shiver of the leaves. They stood there in the middle of it, quiet and still, together. Then, so slowly, he lifted up his rifle. She watched his finger on the trigger, and she smiled.</p><p>At first, watching was enough. <i>At first</i>. She looked forward to their trips into the woods but she remembers, two years later, ten years old, she made a face and hung her head when he said, "Should we go hunting this weekend, India?" </p><p>He brushed back her hair and sat down next to her at the piano, though she'd wound the stool down so it was high enough for her but too low for him. She didn't like to be touched and she flinched away and when she looked back up again, he was frowning at her. It was like he knew something she didn't.</p><p>He closed the lid of the piano. He looked down at his hands resting on top of it, fingertips pressing down till they were white, as she wondered what they'd look like trapped. </p><p>"I'll teach you how to shoot," he said, and she smiled at that. At the weekend, they went hunting.</p><p>She followed his instructions. At first they practiced in the garden, with a BB gun and a target pinned against a wall, so he could talk to her about the way to handle weapons. She listened; his voice changed when he held his rifle, only subtly but she knew. She listened in the woods a few weeks later; she heard him swallow just before she fired. She heard him say her name.</p><p>She missed for months. She remembers her frustration, but he told her she'd improve. She remembers how she flinched when he set his hands down at her shoulders, when he set his hands down over hers against the gun and helped her aim. The first time she shot a bird, heard the bullet hit, saw the mist of blood against the shaking leaves, her father's hands were guiding her.</p><p>At first, hunting was enough. For years, it was enough. They lay on their bellies in the long grass that tickled at her cheeks and they waited, counting leaves, counting heartbeats, counting feathers on the birds that she might kill. It wasn't long before she didn't need his hands on hers to hit her mark, but she still waited till he told her, <i>now</i>. It wouldn't have felt right to shoot before he told her to.</p><p>Years passed like that: soon she was thirteen, fourteen, older. Soon, she was <i>too old</i>.</p><p>"Should we go hunting this weekend?" her father asked, when she'd just turned sixteen, and she remembers frowning. She remembers the pull there in between her brows and how she looked away. </p><p>"Don't you think maybe I'm too old for that?" she replied. "Mom says so." And she tilted her head and closed one eye as she looked up at him, like looking through her rifle's scope. </p><p>"Your mother doesn't understand," he said. Then he rested one hand on her shoulder. Then he rested one hand on the nape of her neck. She shivered. She smiled. She didn't flinch.</p><p>In the woods, she heard the spatter of the rain against the leaves as the sky went dark. In the woods, she heard him breathing as they lay there, propped on forearms in the grass. She felt his hand against her back, against her spine, moving down toward her waist. She heard him say, "Stay still; don't make a sound," and so she didn't. </p><p>His chilly fingers found their way in underneath her jacket and she shivered as they met her skin. His fingers found their way down lower. When they found their way between her thighs, she didn't gasp; she bit her lip and shivered. When he leaned in and murmured, "<i>Now</i>," she took her shot.</p><p>The first time, his hand just rested there against her. The second, his fingertips found the place she told herself she shouldn't touch and pressed down firm. The third, he rubbed, and he told her she should concentrate, though she wasn't sure exactly how to. Each time was another escalation, something new to make her blush as she took aim. But she looked forward to their hunts again, till there was no more hunting because there was no more <i>him</i>.</p><p>Her father always knew exactly what to do, and India always did it, no matter what. Now he's gone, she should feel free; instead, she feels untethered, like she's not sure what's next.</p><p>Her father always knew exactly what to do, and now she knows exactly what that was: something bad, to stop her from doing something worse.</p>
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